I can not bow to woo thee

With honey words and flower kisses

And the dew of sweet half-truths

Fallen on the grass of old quaint love-tales

Of broidered days foredone.

Nor in the murmurous twilight

May I sit below thee,

Worshiping in whispers

Tremulous as far-heard bells.

All these things have I known once

And passed

In that gay youth I had but yester-year.

And that is gone

As the shadow of wind.

Nay, I can not woo thee thus;

But as I am ever swept upward

To the centre of all truth

So must I bear thee with me

Rapt into this great involving flame,

Calling ever from the midst thereof,

“Follow! Follow!”

And in the glory of our meeting

Shall the power be reborn.

And together in the midst of this power

Must we, each outstriving each,

Cry eternally:

“I come, go thou yet further.”

And again, “Follow,”

For we may not tarry.

 

 

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Ezra Pound

Poems by Ezra Pound




Ezra Pound